Fin De Siecle
by Catchline
Summary: Alone in school after comforting Moritz about his exam results, Melchior suddenly finds himself face to face with Hanschen and in the midst of a conversation he'd never have dreamt of. Musical-verse, Oneshot


**Title:** Fin De Siecle

**Disclaimer:** Spring Awakening belongs to Frank Wedekind and Duncan Sheik. Trust me, if I had a hand in either the play or the musical, there'll be a LOT more UST going on.

**Author: **Catchline

**Notes:** Bet you thought I was dead, didn't you? Okay admittedly my muse almost fizzled out on me, but one weekend it returned with a vengeance and threatened not to let me write my essays until I finished this. So yes. If you spot the reference to Conrad (actually it's pretty obvious), kudos to you. And btw, Eliphalet is the guy who composed the song 'row, row, row your boat'.

**Rating:** K, since I really can't see how this can be unsuitable for kids (except maybe for Hanschen's slightly disturbing view on life)

**Warning:** There's no blatant slash, but plenty of UST and hints to club you in the face.

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Melchior listened as the last of the footsteps echoed in the hallways before they died out, the sudden silence ringing in his ears as hollowly as his words had just moments before

The last of the footsteps echoed in the hallways before they died out, and the sudden silence rang in Melchior's ears as hollowly as his words had just moments before.

"Why bother giving him false hope when you know he's going to fail anyway?" The cool, disinterested voice that floated through the air was unexpected, and Melchior jumped – purely from shock, because those words – those dark words, _true_ words – could not have been plucked straight from his mind, and because he did not feel any guilt, for Moritz was his _friend_ and he would never entertain such thoughts about him. His wild gaze swung around and landed on the languid figure balancing on the hind legs of his chair at the corner of the classroom, only the flash of blond hair and cool grey eyes and the long legs propped up on a table visible against the shade that he rested in. Half submerged in both the harsh glare of the midday sun and the shadows curling around him, he could either have been emerging from the heart of darkness or sinking into it, and Melchior wondered how long he had been there, silently listening to their conversation.

"I-I didn't know you were there." The sentence, meant to sound accusatory, stumbled over his lips like an admission of guilt and his ears felt warm, as though the calm, detached words earlier had burnt him.

"The higher you raise his expectations, the harder he's going to fall." Hanschen mused, staring out through the window with half-lidded eyes. "You're just making it harder for him when he eventually fails."

The blow of the words struck Melchior, and his fingers subconsciously curled at his sides. "Moritz is not going to fail," he said firmly.

The moment of silence that followed sounded like mockery, before Hanschen finally shifted and waved the protest away with a long, slender hand as though it was nothing more than air. "The teachers never pass everyone," he turned, grey eyes turning to pierce through the dark-haired boy. "I highly suspect they can't; they need the yearly failure to keep the rest of us on their toes. And you know, of course, that Moritz is their target this year." The last sentence was spoken as a statement, not a question, and Melchior stared at the boy before him.

The blond had never been one of the more outspoken boys in class. He was one of those quietly self-sufficient people who had the ability to fade into the background when and only when he wanted to, and Melchior vaguely remembered the girls swooning at the 'mysterious blond who always came second'. He had never thought much of it, but now he studied the boy intently. Hanschen was intelligent – fiercely so. It was in his eyes and manner, and with a chill Melchior found himself wondering why the blond wasn't first. His own grades were good enough, he knew, but the cool scrutiny from those grey eyes suddenly made him feel insufficient, as though all his flaws – not the radical, anti-establishment tendencies the adults accused him of, but the _real_ flaws, the cracks that lay beneath the skin, waiting to split him apart with a well-placed wedge – had been brought up to the surface by the shadows that curled around the blond.

It was unsettling, but nonetheless the thought of someone who – finally – understood the way he felt about the Adults compelled him, and he nevertheless stepped forward. "Since you know, you can do something! We have to stop them before they fail Moritz – we can-" Melchior cut himself off mid-sentence, and Hanschen arched an amused brow at the stop and inclined his head, waiting for an idea that never came. Melchior's mouth moved, but the words were stuck in this throat. What _could_ they do? He had been exhilarated at the realization that someone else knew about the Adults' scheming and, for a moment, it felt as though he could finally make a change. But to the Adults, Hanschen was like him, merely a Child, and if he wasn't able to do anything before, what made him think that one more person would make a difference? Helplessness weighed heavily on his limbs and chained him to the ground, and for the first time ever, he cursed his youth, and the generation gap that he prided on for keeping him away from the brainwashing of the Adults.

"I see you have noticed the problem. You are powerless on your own. Pray tell, Melchior, what _do_ you intend to do?" He used _you_ instead of _we_, Melchior realized.

He tried again. "It doesn't matter even if we can't do anything now. We can still act in the future, when we seize the reins from Them. Even if we have to suffer now, we can make it better for those who come after us, so they don't have to face the same things we do."

"Is that so?" Hanschen rose from the chair, his body uncurling in a sleek movement that reminded Melchior of a predator waiting to strike. "Haven't you wondered about the time when the adults were like us? Or are you going to say that they've never been children before? How do you think they turned out this way?"

Melchior started to reply only to swallow the unutterable words before they sounded, but Hanschen read his mind, and continued in his relentless barrage of words. "So you know about that too. I suppose congratulations are in order then. Are you going to become the next headmaster when the current one retires? I heard that he was quite a…ah _radical_ in his youth too."

"That's different," Melchior retorted, sharply. "Just because we were similar doesn't mean that we will end up the same."

"Is it?" Hanschen arched a brow and Melchior had the distinct impression of a cat toying with its meal. "Progress is just a term used by those who wish to believe that the time they've wasted actually amounts to something. The fact is that history repeats itself – there was a Melchior Gabor a few years back who gave up his grand ideas, and there will be one a few years later. That you wish to make a change is of no great importance in the long run."

"You can't believe that." The thought was inconceivable. "Saying it is one thing, but if you believe it then there would be nothing to live for."

"My point exactly. People convince themselves that they live for a purpose because anything else was unimaginable. Such is the great importance they assign themselves, when the truth is that we only live for the sake of living, for ourselves. Isn't that why you backed away in Latin class, Melchior? You could have argued further, but to do would only drag you down further, so you stopped."

"I stopped then because it was a futile attempt!" Melchior stepped forward again, and the two of them were practically nose-to-nose. Hanschen was leaning against the wall now, the afternoon sun dancing on his blond hair and long lashes and the pale curve of his cheekbones, and for a moment it was as though Melchior was standing before an angel, and his breath caught in his throat. But the sun disappeared behind the clouds and it was just those grey, coolly assessing eyes that stared unblinkingly at him, and Melchior shook his head to clear it. "Maybe it seems like we're on a boat that goes nowhere, but if you don't rock the boat you'll never get anywhere. And even if it sometimes feels as though the boat is too heavy and we have to throw someone overboard to maintain the status quo, but if we let them then soon there'll be no one left to row the boat. So even if we'll never get anywhere, and even if we're moving in circles, we're still moving and that itself is hope, and if you give up now then we'll definitely never get anywhere."

Hanschen blinked, apparently caught out of his territory for a second, before he threw his head back and laughed, and it was almost as though the sun had come out again, except the sun had fled the minute it touched the blond, and it didn't look as though it would come back anytime soon. "That's…an interesting analogy," he said, and there was a warm, amused note to his voice now. They were still standing face to face and his breath ghosted over Melchior's cheek like a caress and Melchior shivered, though the heat – because it was in the afternoon, of course, for there could be no other reason – pooled within him and radiated in waves that left him feeling dizzy. "I must admit, Melchior, you have a most ingenious way of seeing things around you. It's no wonder that the adults are so concerned. Given the right conditions, you might actually change something. But rock the boat too much and you'll shake yourself off instead of accomplishing anything. Remember that."

Melchior blinked. Those words were a warning. "You're looking out for me." He felt the truth of his statement as he said it. "Why?"

"Am I?" Hanschen didn't agree, but he didn't disagree either. "Why are you looking out for Moritz? It can't be fun for you, always falling back to company those far behind you."

"Moritz is my _friend_." It was a statement that, to Melchior, explained everything. Moritz had shared practically every moment of his childhood with Melchior, and he had no intention of stopping then. But here was the blond standing before him, someone with whom Melchior had exchanged less than five sentences before today, someone who, for all purposes, was supposed to be his academic rival. "If I were expelled, you'd be first in class." The excuse sounded flimsy even to him, and he knew at once that the blond wouldn't care about that.

"Ah, but what's the fun in that?" the blond watched him carefully, his eyes bright against the shadows that wrapped around him like a shield. "Besides, being first is…troublesome. Shine too brightly, and you'll attract the wrong attention."

"Like yours?" The words slipped out without warning, and Hanschen's lips curled into a dagger of a smile. Move too close, it said, and you'll get cut.

"Like mine," he agreed, his tone slippery like the lightning quick wink of a fishes' tail that flashed and sounded a bell in Melchior's head and disappeared again.

"Well then, it isn't so-" Melchior started, but Hanschen silenced him with a wave of his hand and a slight tilt of his head, his attention elsewhere. There were footsteps in the distance, slowly approaching. What Melchior felt was relief. There had been words at the tip of his tongue, words that he should never even think of but he knew would have nevertheless slipped out under the scrutiny of those grey eyes. What was he going to say? His own mouth felt treacherous to him, threatening to spill the contents of the Pandora's Box that he hadn't known existed within him and might not have even existed before this afternoon. If he continued, he didn't know what else he would say, and this feeling of confusion was foreign to him.

"And so Cerberus arrives. But no matter. You were saying?"

"Nothing," Melchior muttered.

A blond eyebrow arched, but the footsteps came closer and Hanschen slipped into his seat, melting back into the shadows as though the conversation had never happened.

Melchior opened his mouth to say something, but a voice cut him short as Hungergurt appeared by the door. "Herr Gabor! What are you doing in school at this hour!"

There was a movement to his left, and Hanschen spoke up, smoothly cutting off Melchior's reply. "Apologies, Professor Hungergurt. I had some trouble with Latin, and Melchior was helping me with it. I'm afraid we rather lost track of the time, and I'm sorry that we were caught breaking the school rules. I assure you it won't happen again."

"Ah Hanschen," Hungergurt relaxed, like a puppet whose puppet-master had suddenly pulled a smile onto its face. "I didn't see you there. Well, since it's your first offence, I suppose just a warning would suffice. But no more wandering around after school hours, do you hear me?"

Hanschen's smile was all charm and harm. "Crystal. Well then, don't let me detain you. Good day, professor." At Hanschen's nod, Hungergurt turned around and walked away in the manner of a robot who had just received new orders from above. "I believe you should be going as well. Continue your rowing, Eliphalet, and we'll see if your little theory is correct in the end."

The doors closed after the blond's retreating back, and Melchior was left staring at the door, with nothing but his strangely rapid heartbeat and the unexpected warmth on his shoulder where Hanschen brushed past him and his confused mind in a room where the sun had suddenly appeared again.

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**End Notes:** This was originally written as a stand alone, so any sequels will purely be up to my muse (and the mercy of the hell we call school). As usual, all comments and criticisms are welcome. (:


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